Disclaimer: Nothing's mine.
Tristan Dugray walked into St Morrison's, feeling a certain bounce in his step. He looked around, registering the rays of sunlight streaming through the glass foyer windows. Dust particles were visible in the air, dancing a lazy dance up and around.
A couple of members of the hospital staff passed him by and Tristan returned their greeting nods.
He looked up, turning off the surrounding noise until everything melted into a common blur. He blinked. His eyes were focused on the moving white coat clad figure descending the steps from the second level of the foyer. His chest swelled. He remembered when he was a kid, he would think kite fliers were some pretty joyful folks, running and laughing in the open, the wind brushing past their ears. He didn't have time to stop and think why he remembered that particular fact at this very moment because the white coat clad figure approached him, balancing two to-go cups.
'You're oozing more cheese than a sappy country song, Dugray,' Paris muttered, shoving a green smoothie into his hands and nodding towards the registration desk where today's surgical schedule was posted. 'I'm assisting you and Thompson for a Dor patch plasty in fourth. Start is scheduled in ten, so find a pop boys band to enlist in or you better get those gooey eyes wide open and change.'
Tristan followed her in the direction of the locker rooms, her babble about details of the Dor procedure vaguely registering at the back of his mind.
Ten minutes later as he finished his smoothie at the OR entrance, already in his scrubs, his surgical cap hanging from his pocket, he looked her in the eye and gave her a nod.
'You hate country,' he noted.
Paris stopped her monologue about the existing variations of Dor procedure and gave him a deadly look.
'I've been briefing you on the techniques of ventricular suturing and that's what you decide to focus on?'
She groaned, hanging her head back.
'Why am I stuck with the poster child of the Goofy Morons Is Us Society?'
He shrugged, his smile getting wider.
'You're pretty immune to stupidity I guess,' he smirked as he threw the empty takeaway cup into the trash bin beside the swinging doors leading to the OR. Paris held one wing of the door open for him and watched him as he moved to go past her.
'I don't hate country,' she moved her mouth to the side. 'I find it useless and nerve-wretching.' She threw him a sideways glance. 'But with time, you learn to appreciate it and it kind of grows on you. Like a wart.'
Tristan stopped and turned back, putting a forearm above her head, leaning on the door she held open for him.
His eyes were vivid as he moved his gaze from one of her eyes to the other and then back, as if checking, searching for something.
'Good,' he said hovering above her, a cheeky smile turning the corners of his mouth up.
Paris filled her lungs with air and let it out briefly. Without her heels, their height difference was ridiculous. She had to crane her head up in order to be able to see him.
'Because it would break my heart if it didn't.' he said.
She narrowed her eyes, trying to read through his casual demeanor and the unexpected intensity behind his gaze.
He tilted his head, pointing at the OR with his chin.
'Let's get in and cut this heart open.'
'Motorcycle accident. Twenty-six year old man, polytrauma. Multidisciplinary needed in fifth,' the speakers announced.
'Polytrauma,' Paris rubbed her hands impatiently. 'Thank God for bikers.'
Jess and Tristan exchanged looks.
'Hey!' Paris' indignant voice made them turn back towards her. 'I saw that. Don't pretend you're not excited, polytrauma is a surgical smorgasbord.'
'Jesus,' Jess shook his head while Tristan was trying to suppress a chuckle. 'You're lucky there was no Humanity test in Med school.'
'Because you would've passed it,' Paris rolled her eyes.
They entered the scrub room and started washing their hands.
All three of them turned to look in the direction of the swinging doors to the scrub room where a tall figure in white scrubs and a light blue surgical cap entered. The three of them seemed to suck in a breath as they watched her wash her hands and then scrub. There was an air about her, some unspoken feeling of superiority. The way she moved, the way she scrubbed. Oh, the way she scrubbed. Paris hoped the didn't have drool pooling from the corner of her mouth. The woman was some damn surgical legend and she seemed to own that as she stood straighter, keeping her hands up with the elbows pointing down, giving the three of them a brief acknowledging nod before entering the OR.
'If I have the worst surgical crush on the Vamp, slap me,' Paris whispered towards Jess.
'If you turn goo goo eyed, I'll make sure we have a one to one.'
'Life-savior.'
'And if she gets touchy-feely with Dugray, be sure to kick her shin when she's not clamping a cerebral artery.'
'Sure do.'
They entered the OR, Jess and Paris feeling more than a bit curious while Tristan felt less than a little bit so.
...
'Electrocoagulation.'
'Clamp.'
Beatrice Shefield took the instrument and stood straighter, moving her head from side to side, the tendons of her fine neck straining. She was graceful, her figure elegant, her movements precise with practiced grace.
'Clips.'
Minutes passed as the surgery went on. The staff looked towards the round clock on the wall more and more often.
Shefield went on, seemingly unperturbed. Her surgical technique was impeccable, making the finest movements over the surgical field seem easy and natural. Her surgical touch was the product of years and years of practice and devotion and the air in the room seemed thick with respect at the way she handled herself all over the course of the surgery.
As their looks met a couple of times during the surgery, Jess' eyes met Paris' with a spark of amusement. At some point there was a certain manipulation that all but made the staff clap their hands in applause, when Jess arched an eyebrow and Paris stopped herself before she let the awe reach her eyes, rolling her eyeballs at him instead.
'Aspiration.'
The rest of the surgical team had practically finished their part and were standing until the end of the surgery because they somehow felt they were witnessing something extraordinary. Because Beatrice Shefield was an artist in her field. And it was extraordinary to witness this extent of human skill, handling surgical instruments like they were meant to produce a masterpiece and creating a fucking symphony from scratch.
'Again.'
'Suture.'
Beatrice Shefield straightened up, rolling her shoulders and moving her head from side to side. With a natural, fluid move, she lowered her head towards Tristan's shoulder, touching her forehead to wipe some invisible sweat drops into his surgical coat. For a moment time froze. And Paris saw it. The way they fit together. Like the cover of a magazine, they looked good together. Her vintage elegance and his boyish charm. A glamorous match. They clicked.
And then, as if an invisible force brought her look towards Tristan's face, she saw it. Something else. Something beside her graceful form and his athletic build. The detachment. The disgust. Paris narrowed her eyes, unsure of whether to believe her gut. But there it was. Disgust. With Shefield? With himself?
Paris had been working with Tristan Dugray for two years now, known him for a total of twelve years, and still felt like she only recently began to understand him. Because for a moment she caught a glimpse of what was under that shiny loud exterior. And it was a man who knew loneliness, inside and out.
A couple of hours later Dr Geller was checking Mr Wang's vitals. He was starting to slowly wake up from the anesthesia. Alinski had already checked on him, and so were gonna the rest of the team who had performed the surgery.
'He good?' Tristan's voice came beside her while Paris filled in Mr Wang's chart.
'As good as new,' Paris answered.
A pause. She stole a sideways glance, finding him no different from any other day. He could become the poster man for a boy band any minute now and totally look the part. How could he be the most laid-back and at the same time the loneliest man in the world? She thought how he always seemed to lay himself bare but at the same time changed focus, making the bystander miss the first thing about him.
'You needed me?' a low female voice with an attractive rasp to it came behind them, snapping Paris out of her thoughts.
'You speak Mandarin?' Paris asked without turning back to face Shefield.
A pause. A pause during which Beatrice Shefield did the math and figured that this Geller punk had turned from adoring her to thinking it hurt her lungs to breathe the same air as her.
Shefield's answer came clipped and fast.
'No.'
'Then what could he possibly need you for?' Paris turned towards Shefield, her look sharp and unapologetic.
'I guess we're finished here,' Shefield breathed through her nose and started to leave. She paused midway, turning her chin towards Paris, a small smile gracing her lips.
'It was your mother I operated on last year, wasn't it?'
The question was asked with such ease, like slicing butter. A question to which she knew the answer.
'Nanny,' Tristan's voice came raspy. 'It was her nanny.'
The two women exchanged looks, the air between them electrifying.
Oh yeah, Missy. This means war.
'I never thought I'd witness this.'
Tristan's hand paused on the door handle to his Audi.
The parking was almost empty, the work day long over. Tristan shook his head and licked his lip, bracing himself for another of Bea's verbal attacks. She loved flaunting the fact that she knew him. She liked to believe she knew him so well.
'You're crushing on that Oompa Loompa feminist leader.'
Tristan's face stood closed off, guarded, not a trace of a smile as he lifted his head to meet Beatrice's look.
'At first I thought you were being friendly,' Beatrice reasoned, leaning back against the backdoor of the car, folding her arms before her chest.
'But then I saw you watch her drink coffee. For five minutes.'
Tristan shrugged, his posture stiff.
'I've slept with her. Both of us know it doesn't have to mean anything.'
Beatrice pressed her lips together and gave him a long look.
'Yeah. We do.'
Because they had been in a relationship for months, and he hadn't once given her reason to believe he loved her. And she hadn't bargained for more, because she liked to keep things casual, to be able to be in control. She had never thought of wanting anything but his body until she'd lost all of him and found the gap much wider than she'd anticipated.
Beatrice shook her head in disbelief. He did care about that little punk, more than he was willing to admit.
'She's practically me, you know? Maybe a little younger and rough around the edges, but anyway. You've found another me. Have you thought about that?'
Tristan smiled inwardly, making sure to keep his face neutral on the outside. Paris Geller was a powerful woman who was born to lead armies. She was egocentric, control freaked and unapologetic. Basically, she was cutthroat bitch... if she had to stand up for the people she loved. If she had to spill blood, she wouldn't think twice. Because that was the only way she knew how to love. And her love... her love was just as fierce and breathtaking as she was.
Tristan opened his car door and gave Beatrice a long look.
'She's nothing like you,' he let out a small smile before he entered the Audi and started the engine.
TBC